Indeed, I am still in the forest, and quietly lost among the nature I love so dear. It's a melancholic place, shaded by the canopy, the earth is soft and moist beneath my feet and I sort of like it here. Moving three steps back to yield one forward, it's not upsetting. The scenery couldn't be more beautiful and I am content. The trees are my anchors, their branches and the ferns my friends, the birds are my amusement, all I need is this time and the words of Pablo Neruda, and my cup comes full.
and lifted its whisper to my thirsty lips:
maybe it was the voice of the rain crying,
a cracked bell, or a torn heart.
Something from far off it seemed
deep and secret to me, hidden by the earth,
a shout muffled by huge autumns,
by the moist half-open darkness of the leaves.
Wakening from the dreaming forest there, the hazel-sprig
sang under my tongue, its drifting fragrance
climbed up through my conscious mind
as if suddenly the roots I had left behind
cried out to me, the land I had lost with my childhood—-
and I stopped, wounded by the wandering scent.